


All of the Ways

by loverlyduck



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Eventual Relationships, M/M, Road Trips, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-14
Updated: 2016-11-15
Packaged: 2018-08-31 02:11:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8559316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loverlyduck/pseuds/loverlyduck
Summary: He’s never failed a mission. They couldn’t go back to the base. To make matters worse, they were being followed closely by Talon operatives all around the city for three days before. They were immediately sent out on the road, told to drive to some coordinate on the east coast and wait for instructions. So here they are, driving and waiting.





	1. Chapter 1

It’s the first time for him that a mission has gone wrong, well, a mission he’s been in the front lines for. It’s the first time he’s been on the run, well, on the run in the United States. It’s his first time being alone with someone for a month straight, well, someone he wasn’t too fond of. That someone is the whole reason the mission went south. That someone is the one who forced them to go on the run. That someone is Jesse McCree, who is currently driving their inconspicuous, undercover car down the never ending stretch of highway that is Route 66. 

 

They’ve been driving for about four hours, giving Hanzo plenty of stewing time. He’s angry, sure, but more taken aback by the absurdity of the situation. He’s never failed a mission, and if he has it’s been in training so there’s been no repercussions. However, this time it was a big mess up--huge--and it resulted in both of their faces being plastered on the Talon’s Most Wanted list and successfully endangered the entire team. They couldn’t go back to the base, and they couldn’t complete the mission. To make matters worse, they were being followed closely by Talon operatives all around the city for three days before Winston and Tracer could rendezvous with them. From there they were immediately sent out on the road, told to drive to some coordinate on the east coast and wait for instructions. So here they are, driving and waiting. 

 

While Hanzo is undoubtedly bothered by it, McCree is as positive as always--so upbeat in fact that it makes Hanzo a little uneasy. There’s light music playing on the radio and it fuzzes in and out every couple of miles, but McCree plays the steering wheel like a bongo the whole time, keeping tempo with whatever creeps its way onto the FM waves. Hanzo glances at McCree occasionally as they drive, his unending optimism a magnet for his senses. There’s an air of calm around him that he unconsciously reaches for whenever his mind cycles back through their mission--what went wrong? How did they find us? Where did we mess up?--and in those moments McCree’s baritone voice will float into the air and penetrate his train of thought. The cowboy’s irritating behavior is attention seeking and addictive. Hanzo watches him entertain himself on these boring desert roads and wonders what his mental stamina must be like. His eyes burn holes into the side of McCree’s face and the driver turns to briefly smile at his passenger. Hanzo realizes a little too late that he’s been staring a little too long and brings his attention back to the window.

 

They’re undercover, meaning they have to look as little like themselves as possible--which is a ridiculous request of two very well known “heroes”. McCree is almost clean shaven and wearing a plain, long sleeved, black T-shirt with blue jeans with his cigar dangling loosely from his mouth. He fought tooth and nail to keep his boots, claiming they’re part of the Southern ensemble, but his hat was taken away and he was wrestled into putting his hair up in a ponytail, just to throw off any wandering eyes. Hanzo on the other hand was in a yellow t-shirt with a blue cardigan layered on top and grey shorts. Tracer shoved a pair of what she called boat shoes at him, but they looked more like house shoes to Hanzo, and she insisted he wear them. He complied, even when they told him he had to wear his hair down and ditch the ribbon. It’s uncomfortable in the heat of the desert and he can’t stop tucking the longer black strands behind his ears, getting annoyed by the feeling, and then untucking them. He sighs audibly and his ever vigilant driver notices. McCree gives him another quick glance before returning his eyes to the road. He’s noticed Hanzo had been pretty quiet since they left the city, but maybe that was his personality? They did just mess up pretty bad--and by then he means himself--but maybe being grumpy is in his nature? He has to admit he’s never spent a lot of time with the guy and now that they’re stuck together the unfamiliarity makes him a little uncomfortable. Sure, he’s heard some things about his dark past and the situation with his brother, but they all have some darkness they’ve left behind and Hanzo’s no different. He’s sure some sort of bond or friendship will come out of this glass-bottle situation and Jesse McCree is nothing if not friendly, so might as well try.

 

“Gotta pee?” McCree asks, breaking the long silence and nodding lightly towards the blue road sign indicating important destinations. The next rest stop is in 20 miles and then 300 miles. Hanzo cringes at the thought of holding it for three hours or more and sits up straighter in his seat. 

 

“It would not hurt to stop.” He groans, stretching his neck and back, preparing to stand up for the first time since they left. His muscles ache from the hours of lazing in the car and he cracks his ankles to loosen himself up a bit more. McCree nods and presses a bit harder on the gas.

 

“Good,” he sighs, “I’ve had to go for the last 70 miles.” He laughs a bit, chewing on the end of his unlit cigar--a nasty habit not even the threat of death could break. He pushes the cigar around his mouth a moment before speaking,. “I’m glad you can still talk.” He glances daringly over to his passenger, “You’ve been mighty quiet today.” Hanzo scowls at the cowboy, burning holes in his sideburns.

 

“This is not the best place for conversation.” He responds, his mind a confusing battle ground of anger towards the gunslinger and yet grateful for his steadying presence. Being stuck in this car doesn’t help calm his mind and he craves to open his door and step outside. His gaze returns to his window as McCree lets out a light laugh.

 

“Well the way things are headed, you might just hear me talk to myself.” McCree smiles at Hanzo, even though he’s too busy staring out the window at the fast-moving cati to see it, “And I’ve always loved my own company.”

 

Hanzo scoffs. It’s hard to stay mad when the cowboy actually talks. He’s a gentle man who never means to cause harm to anyone around him. Hanzo thinks he must feel some kind of regret or shame for putting them in this awful situation, being as he usually cares about other’s well being over his own. In the last few months since joining Overwatch, he’s learned a lot about his team mates. Living in the same quarters grants you the luxury of learning the ins and outs of people faster than you would if everyone went home at the end of the night. McCree has a lot of things blacked out and covered up in his file, but he’s a changed man and Hanzo has seen nothing but good from him. Hanzo is a bit more a mystery, not really talking to many people and not confiding in anyone other than his brother--but he knows Genji has a large mouth and his business gets around one way or another. Hanzo’s file is small, but his story has been told many times. It’s sort of comforting to know that his team mates know his history without him having to say it out loud. One person can only take so much guilt in one lifetime.

 

They finally see the squat, unassuming building in the distance--a break of scenery in the vast expanse of desert. McCree steps on the gas pedal a bit more and they rocket into the parking lot. The lot is empty except for two other cars and McCree parks as close to the front door as he can. As soon as they’re stopped McCree wretches his door open and careens for the front door. Hanzo stays seated watching him bolt into the convenience store, watching his teammate run inside, a pained expression on his face and spurs jingling--he chuckles quietly to himself, thankful the cowboy is not around to hear it.

 

Hanzo, now alone and still in the car, decides to browse the tiny convenience store to avoid the creeping heat of the day. It’s your typical fare of snacks and drinks of which Hanzo cannot resist buying. Everything in America is saltier, sweeter, and leaves him with insatiable cravings. He grabs a few bags of chips, some drinks and a sandwich which he drops on the counter. He chose turkey, not that it matters, but Hanzo distinctly remembers McCree making himself a turkey sandwich when they were back on base. An unenthused cashier rings him up quickly, obviously anticipating getting to get back to the magazine they were reading before Hanzo arrived. Behind the counter, a television plays the news. Hanzo glances at it idly, expecting their faces to pop up at any moment. The news anchor flashes in and off the screen as he pays for his food. Their faces don’t come up and Hanzo takes his bag of goodies to the car. The day is hot and the relentless sun is only amplified by Hanzo’s long black hair brushing against his neck. He puts his hand in his pocket, feeling the silken strand slip between his fingers. He knows he can’t, he knows he’s undercover, but he craves the familiarity of the fabric in his hair and the breeze on the bare skin of his neck.

 

McCree pops out of the store a moment later, watching Hanzo pull his hair back with both hands and enjoying the wind on his neck. He takes in the sight, mouth going a bit dry as his eyes drift down his neck to Hanzo’s shirt which rides up his abdomen just enough for a tease of skin to peek through. McCree clears his throat and Hanzo looks up, letting his hair fall back down. McCree motions towards the now empty bathroom and they trade spots. McCree watches Hanzo walk away and before digging into the small bag of groceries. They’ve been teammates for a while, but the sudden intimacy of this situation is throwing McCree for a loop. He’s not exactly sure how to act around Hanzo and Hanzo in turn seems oddly comfortable around him. The small glimpses he’s gotten of his true, relaxed nature makes McCree’s stomach tighten. Hanzo’s an attractive man and a little bit mysterious, which pumps up McCree’s interest in him to 100%.

 

McCree grabs the sandwich Hanzo purchased out of the bag and reads the label. Turkey, huh? McCree’s favorite. Whether it was purposeful or not, McCree feels a pang in his chest as he unwraps one half and takes a bite. It’s mediocre, but might as well be a five course meal in the middle of nowhere. When Hanzo reemerges, McCree extends the other half of the sandwich to Hanzo, who takes it without question. They both enjoy their lunch silently until McCree speaks up.

 

“How’d you know turkey is my favorite?” He asks, wiping crumbs away from his mouth. Hanzo chews silently for a moment, staring at the glass door of the convenience store. He shrugs after a moment and takes another bite, obviously unwilling to answer the question. He’d never tell him that he’d remembered such a small detail.

 

\---

 

Empty drink bottles and chip bags litter the floor of the car. Both men had devoured the few snacks Hanzo picked up at lunch and dinner time was fast approaching. The sun was already trying to hide behind the mountainous peaks to the west and they were both feeling the effects of a long day stuck in the car. 

 

McCree had slowed down to a measly 40 miles per hour and they weren’t making good progress. They were supposed to be Albuquerque by now, but they were barely inside of New Mexico. The clock on the dashboard screamed 8:00 pm. McCree grunted at the time, willing it to pass slower.

 

“You OK with stopping for the night?” McCree asks, hands rubbing the steering wheel. Hanzo opens his eyes and rolls his head to face McCree. He’s slouching in his seat, so much so that Hanzo thinks he might develop a back problem by the time they get to the east coast. He looks tired, the bags under his eyes accentuated by the pale light of a fading day. 

 

“Yes.” Hanzo replies in a groggy voice. “Let’s stop there.” They haven’t talked much since they stopped and his voice is breaks from under-use. He points to a Motel in the distance. The sign is intact and there’s not letters missing from the marquee so McCree agrees. The motel is small and unassuming. The vacancy sign flashes bright red, a beacon against the dark sky above. There’s no other signs of civilization expect for a road sign for a gas station 50 miles down the road. McCree turns the car off and pats the dashboard approvingly.

 

“Ya did good, old girl.” He says before opening his door, “Let’s get some shut eye.” He says to Hanzo and closes his door behind him, taking the opportunity to stretch for a moment. He watches through the glass as Hanzo slowly unbuckles his seatbelt to reach for his bag in the back seat. Hanzo abandoned his blue cardigan during the drive and McCree gets a great view of his intricate tattoo. It stretches beautifully down his arm as he extends it to its full potential, the muscle straining as he lifts his bag and puts it in his lap. Hanzo turns and catches McCree’s gaze. The gunslinger quickly turns and heads to the main office, pretending he wasn’t just staring.

 

Hanzo watches as Jesse disappears into the office. He shakes his head and gets out of the car, the cool air whipping through his straight locks. He attempts to calm his hair with one hand and gives up as the wind changes direction. The desert is a stagnant pool of heat during the day, but at night the mountains let their cool breeze drift into the valleys of New Mexico. Hanzo digs through his bag and finds a simple hair tie, throwing his hair into a messy bun before opening the trunk for the rest of his belongings.

 

McCree comes out of the office twirling the keys to their room on his flesh hand, the other shoved into the pocket of his jeans. Hanzo grabs all of their belongings out of the trunk and slams it shut. McCree appears by his side and takes all of the bags into his arms, passing Hanzo the key. He reads the key tag and heads to their room, McCree idly chatting behind him.

 

“Now this aint no 5 star hotel, honey.” McCree states, adjusting the multitude of bags in his arms, “They only had a few rooms left and let’s just say it’s not gonna be the best accomodations…” His words drift off as Hanzo puts the key in the lock and turns. The door opens, but doesn’t budge. Hanzo turns the handle and shoves against it with his shoulder. It finally begins to swing away from him with a loud creak. He allows McCree to shuffle past him before closing the door and locking it. He turns towards the room, McCree dropping off their bags on the bed. The only bed. 

 

“I see there’s one bed.” Hanzo states, a look of distaste over his sharp features. McCree throws his own bags on the floor and pushes Hanzo’s towards the other side of the rather large bed. A king bed, Hanzo assumes, but still only one mattress for two people. McCree lets out a laugh.

 

“All they had, darlin’.” He grabs the communicator out of his backpack before continuing. “Like I said, not the best accommodations.” Hanzo watches the gunslinger as he lifts the mattress and turns up the corners of the sheets, presumably checking for bed bugs. “And I dunno about you, but at the end of the day I don't care how I sleep or who I sleep with as long as I'm…” McCree thinks of the right word for a second, resting the communicator on his lap. “Horizontal.” he decides, putting both hands out in front of him, palms facing each other and flicking his wrist. The communicator comes to life in his hands and McCree glances at it before looking back at his team mate. Hanzo looks at him quizzically, prompting him to continue. “You know, laying down I mean.” He makes the strange hand motion again, “Horizontal.” He nods his head, agreeing with his own nonsensical blathering. Hanzo’s not sure if he continues talking out of nervousness or scensarity, but the hand thing...

 

Hanzo continues to stare, “What are you doing with your hands?” His eyes glance from the cowboys face to hands, a look of confusion painting his features.

 

McCeee quirks an eyebrow at him, also mildly confused. “What, you mean this?” He puts his hands in front of him and flicks his wrists down once more, his straightening hands going from a vertical to horizontal position.

 

“Yes, what is the purpose of that gesture?” Hanzo brings both of his hands up and mirrors the action, “Is this necessary? Does this make some sort of point?”

 

“Sure isn't and it sure doesn’t, but I think it accentuates my position on the bed conundrum pretty well.” A look of dread creeps back on to Hanzo’s face and McCree smiles. “See, look, you forgot about it already.” Just as Hanzo is about to retort to McCree’s ludicrous positivity, the communicator in McCree’s horizontal hands beeps. McCree glances at the clock on the bedside stand, “Well, well, well. 9 pm on the dot.”

 

Hanzo puts his bags down on the table by the door and goes to McCree’s side. Even though they’ve been sitting by each other all day, McCree feels his presence even more so in their small motel room. Hanzo stands by McCree and leans into his personal space to view the message on the communicator. His hair is up in a disheveled bun, giving McCree a full view of his neck once more. He carries himself with so much confidence it’s too alluring to look away. His posture is perfect next to him and he stands with stoically, waiting. McCree’s gaze lingers on the soft curve of his neck and the stark contrast in brings to his defined jaw and strong collarbone. Hanzo’s a tad bit shorter than McCree and he’s grateful for the height difference--he’s sure his face is beet red.

 

“Hello? Is anybody there?” Winston’s voice crackles to life on their secure channel. McCree fumbles with the communicator until he finds the button to respond back.

 

“Yes’sir, agent McCree and Hanzo reporting in from New Mexico.” McCree flashes a charming smile at the device as if Winston can see it. A snort comes through from the other side.

 

“New Mexico, huh? Is that your way of telling me you didn’t make it to Albuquerque?” McCree clears his throat, thrown off by this disappointed tone of their leader.

 

“Nope, couldn’t get there tonight. But we’ll double time tomorrow, don’t you worry!” The assured tone in McCree’s voice almost fools Hanzo as well.Winston sighs.

 

“I’ll adjust the timeline, but you better make it to the rendezvous by the end of the week. So far, it’s been quiet here in San Diego, but that doesn’t mean you’re not being looked for.” There’s silence on both ends for a moment and Hanzo leans away from the communicator to look up at McCree with a raised eyebrow. His mouth is drawn in a tight line and his face is flushed red. Hanzo wasn’t aware of a timeline, but it seems McCree took it rather seriously. McCree tries not to notice the archer staring at him but it’s hard to ignore his proximity to the shorter man. He tries to focus on the communicator, memorizing floating pattern on the screen instead of the color of Hanzo’s eyes.

 

The call ends after a brief lecture from Winston about punctuality and McCree hangs up with a sigh. Hanzo walks away from him going back to his bag. He pulls out a small pack of toiletries and a book, setting the book on the opposite bed side table from McCree and walking towards the bathroom. McCree watches him the entire time, eyes following him around the room. He finally looks away when Hanzo disappears into the bathroom and the door shuts.The shower comes on after a moment and McCree lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. He feels uncharacteristically tense after the phone call--he frequently gets chewed out by the intelligent ape, but he usually doesn’t share a bed with another man. For all the talk he was earlier, when it comes to actually laying down, he doesn’t think he can do it. 

 

He changes into a pair of sweats, leaving his long sleeve shirt on and letting his hair down out of its ridiculous bun. He reaches into his own things and fishes out a bottle of bourbon and two glasses, assuming Hanzo might want to drink with him. He decides to sit down at the small table by the door, pushing Hanzo’s bag away from the edge to give himself space. He pours himself a drink and downs it all at once. He grimaces against the burn and flips open the communicator, tapping through emails.

 

Hanzo shuffles out of the bathroom a while later looking relaxed and coiffed, his hair falling in long dark strands around his face. He’s wearing a pair of shorts again, obviously Overwatch issued sleeping wear, with a plain tank top, also courtesy of their employer. McCree looks up from the communicator to watch him walk to the table and throw a few things into his bag. Now that he’s closer, McCree can smell the clean fragrance of motel soap drifting from his warm skin. He feels heat build around his collar and resists the urge to pull down on it. He pours himself another drink, filling the second glass as well. Hanzo eyes the glass and isn’t surprised when McCree pushes it over to him. The cowboy always enjoyed to drink, but he never drinks alone.

 

Hanzo sits down, putting his bag on the floor, and shares the table with the gunslinger. He takes a sip of the bourbon and winces as it burns down his throat. He sets his glass down and crosses his arms on the table. McCree puts away the communicator into the pocket of his sweatpants and takes a drink as well. Hanzo hopes they might drink quietly, but McCree always has something to say.

 

“How’s the shower?” McCree asks, pouring them both another glass of strong brown liquid. Hanzo holds the glass between two fingers, not one to jump at conversation, he takes his time sipping the beverage and letting the silence drag on between them.

 

“Refreshing.” Hanzo finally says, setting his glass on the table. It rests with a soft thud and McCree takes the opportunity to top him off yet again.

 

“Good to hear.” McCree mumbles, putting the cork back on the bourbon and leaning back in his chair, full glass in his good hand. “Not much to talk about is there?” He wonders out loud, allowing the alcohol to do the talking for him. He hears Hanzo suck on his teeth and takes that as a que to keep drinking.

 

“We’re going to be alone together for a while,” Hanzo starts, eyes following McCree’s arm as he knocks back his drink, “Plenty of time to talk… Not much opportunity for silence.” A smirk slips on to Hanzo’s lips and McCree notices, heart beating a bit faster in his chest. 

 

“Oh, you know you like it when I blather on.” McCree shoots back, setting his glass on the table before leaning back again. He grabs a cigar from his other pocket and pops it in his mouth, unlit. “‘Sides, if I don’t do the talking, you’d never open your mouth.”

 

“I open my mouth for very few people.” Hanzo responds, setting his empty glass down as well. “You should appreciate the amount I do for you.” His face is straight, but his tone is playful. Maybe it’s because English isn’t his first language, but McCree feels like the archer might be flirting, and it send his blood pressure through the roof.

 

They keep drinking, throwing insults and jabs at each other until they’re both so plastered that the redness in their cheeks creeps onto the bridges of their nose. McCree’s laughing has gotten so loud that their neighbors bang on the cardboard walls and Hanzo has to shush him constantly. The bourbon’s gone, settling in their warm stomachs and clouding their judgement. McCree has been trying to get Hanzo to say more than two sentences all night and Hanzo has fought against his advances rather successfully. However, with more than a few glasses of bourbon greasing the wheels, he’s finally started to open up.

 

“Tell me,” McCree asks, putting an elbow at the table and pointing at the archer with conviction, “and you gotta tell me ‘cause you’ve been avoidin’ makin’ this an actual conversation all night.” Hanzo rolls his eyes so hard McCree wonders for a moment if they’re stuck.

 

“Why does all of this talking interest you so much?” Hanzo questions back, folding his arms on the table in front of him and resting his forehead against them for a moment. “I am not interesting, I have nothing interesting to say.” He lifts his head and rests his chin on his arms instead, looking at McCree with glazes eyes. McCree’s words catch in his throat for a moment, the softness in his features overwhelming.

 

“‘But I find you interestin’, darlin’.” More and more words are becoming shortened in McCree’s drunken stupor. Hanzo begins to feel bad for all of the “g”s he never says. “You’re a ‘got dang mystery and I’m takin’ this opportunity to find out more about ya.” McCree throws a toothy grin at Hanzo and, he might be imagining it, but Hanzo’s face gets marginally redder.

 

“OK,” Hanzo caves, turning his head so his cheek is now on his folded arms. “What do you want to know, cowboy?” Hanzo asks, returning a more subtle smile. McCree feels the temperature in his cheeks rise a few degrees runs his hand down his face. This man will be the death of him.

 

“I wanna get to know you better.” McCree says, voice gentle despite his tortured expression. Hanzo’s eyes go wide and his eyebrows shoot up his forehead. Know more about him? What about him? What parts of him could he possibly want to know? He thinks about what he does know, what his brother has told people and what others whisper about it deep in the night when he’s not around. His pocketed past filled with regrets and torturous memories. He turns his face again, this time burying into his arms.

 

“I want ‘ta know where you come from, how you got here… McCree continues, leaning back in his chair, letting the front two legs come off the ground, eyes never leaving Hanzo, “Your hopes, dreams, aspirations…” McCree swallows, “Who’s waitin’ for you back home? Who you’re waitin’ for… I’m not much for gossip. I prefer hearin’ it straight from the horse’s mouth.” Hanzo’s face softens, a complicated emotion flitting over his features--he’s glad he’s turned away from his teammate so he can’t see the pain and shame, clear on his face. There’s a beat of tense silence before Hanzo speaks.

 

“I am not supposed to tell you...” Hanzo mumbles into his arm. “I have many secrets…” McCree’s mind runs over the incident with his brother, but can’t for the life of him think what the second one might be. “But I’ve only ever shown you one...” Hanzo voice barely drifts by McCree’s ears, so soft he’s not sure if he can hear it. Instantly curious, he waits for Hanzo to continue, but he never does. Soft noises drift from the other man and McCree stands up to look at his face. He’s sound asleep, eyes closed, passed out on the table.

 

“What shit timin’.” McCree sighs, running his metal hand through his tousled locks. He’s still drunk and definitely not tired after seeing Hanzo so vulnerable. He must’ve hit one hell of a nerve. He looks up at the ceiling, the yellow molding staring back down at him. What does he mean secrets? He sounded so far away, what could he be thinking about? McCree’s only more infatuated.

 

He pulls an extra blanket out of the closet and throws it over the archer’s shoulders. McCree watches him for a moment, flesh hand idly scratching the back of his head while he thinks. He should move him to the bed, but he’s not one to wake a drunk man up. He’s been on the wrong side of a sleeping drunk too many times--fist flying, usually right at his nose. He takes a good look, taking in Hanzo’s peaceful expression, his slightly parted lips slipping in breaths and his hair cascading on the table like spilled ink. Flustered, McCree decides to leave him where he sleeps and slips into bed. He’s too drunk to think, he’ll deal with all this nonsense in the morning.

 

Before he slips off into deep sleep, he feels the other side of the bed dip down, but he’s too far gone to open his eyes.


	2. Chapter 2

The road stretches out in front of him, orange, dustry, and endless. He’s driving, driving into the end of the earth, the cliff of the world. The infinite waterfall of the horizon races towards him at a breakneck pace, the desert flying by in the periphery of his vision. He feels someone next to him, a shadowy presence sitting beside him, but he can’t wrench his eyes off of the road to look. The gravel of the dirt crunches beneath the tires and feeds through the radio--drowning out any other noise. It grows louder and louder, ringing in his ears like a siren call, drawing him deeper into the oceanic expanse of nothing in front of him.

 

He’s woken up by the sound of running water. McCree blinks wearily, the motel room coming in to view. He rolls over onto the empty side of the bed, the sheets are still warm. He sighs, his head pounding at the effort. Everything smells too strong and too unfamiliar. The air is stale and dry while the sheets smell musty and wet. It makes his stomach turn and his mouth more noticeably gross. He needs water… and maybe some eggs. He tries to think of places to eat on the road, but thinking makes him nauseous. He stares instead at the door of the bathroom, slightly ajar. He never showered last night… Oh man does he want a shower right now. 

 

Hanzo appears a moment later in the frame of the doorway, a toothbrush in his mouth. The light behind him frames his silhouette, but McCree can’t see his face. He takes in the outline of his body, weary eyes drinking in his refreshing pose. How is he so unaffected? McCree thinks back to his sleeping face on the table and resists the urge to bury his nose in the pillow. They drank too much, McCree talked to much, it was the usual embarrassment, but somehow it was amplified ten thousand fold. They have to drive eleven hours today. McCree groans.

 

They still haven’t talked about the mission--what went wrong; why they were here in this god awful motel room on a desert road in the middle of nowhere. Both have been avoiding talking about it, but it was an elephant in the room that McCree is no good at ignoring. Hanzo’s mad, he knows he is, and it’s not like McCree is singing songs about it, but he’s decidedly more calm. Hanzo tends to wear his emotions on his sleeves, even though those emotions are hard to decipher most of the time. 

 

“Good morning.” Hanzo says from the shadows, his mouth still preoccupied with brushing. McCree watches his arm move back and forth, back-lit like the rest of him. He scoffs at the darkness.

 

“What's good about it?” He asks, turning on his back and stretching his arms over his head--extending his legs. Hanzo pretends he doesn't let his eyes linger as the cowboys feet gently poke out of the bottom of the sheets. They shared that bed last night and the thought brings a tinge of color to Hanzo’s cheeks. He doesn’t remember how he got under the covers, but when he woke up he felt safe and warm. He was facing away from the other man this morning, the only indication of his presence was a few soft snores coming from behind him. Hanzo laughs a bit, thinking of the gunslinger, still asleep, laying on his back--arms and legs sprawled in all directions--Hanzo was still surprised he didn’t reach him in the night.

 

Hanzo heads back into the bathroom, allowing McCree a few moments to gather himself. He seems much more worse for wear than Hanzo, who after a washing his face and brushing his teeth, feels much better than he did during the 10 hour car ride. He sighs and takes stock of his undercover clothes. Today he’s wearing a different pair of grey shorts, ones that go slightly above his knee--he scowls at the length, but they fit comfortably enough to sit down for long periods of time in. He’s got a white V-neck shirt and a black cardigan today. He picks at the soft fabric of the cardigan. His team mates informed him that a tattoo would bring too much unwanted attention, and with his hair covering the spiraling detail up his neck, he needed to cover his arms somehow… He rolls up the sleeves, wishing they could stay like this all day.  Why does he care so much about how he looks? Usually he’s wearing the same uniform--what difference does casual clothes make? Hanzo holds in a sigh and closes his eyes.  _ Just a few more days. _ He thinks to himself, willing his feet to leave the restroom.

 

When he emerges, McCree is by the doorway, hair disheveled and yawning. He’s abandoned his shirt for some god awful reason and is holding a few travel sized containers in his hand, obviously planning to take a shower. They’ve never truly been this close before--a distance so short that Hanzo merely has to extend his hand to touch the gunslinger’s bare skin. Hanzo takes in a sharp breath through his nose--he smells like smoke and gunpowder.

 

He hears a small chuckle before McCree slips past him into the bathroom with a polite, “Excuse me, darlin’.” and closes the door, causing the archer to shuffle out of the way. Hanzo has to remember to keep breathing. 

 

_ Too close. _ He thinks, packing his bag.  _ Just a few more days _ . He repeats to himself, hoping to believe it.

 

\---

 

They get back on the road early--McCree’s headache persisting most of the morning. The shower helped, the bottle of water helped, but damn if he doesn’t need a good breakfast right now--a real breakfast--with eggs, and bacon, and toast… His stomach growls audibly and he sees Hanzo turn to him out of the corner of his eye. McCree smiles sheepishly and puts a hand over his empty stomach. 

 

“Guess it’s time for breakfast.” McCree mumbles, glancing at both sides of the road for civilization. They travel a few miles like this, McCree scanning the horizon with strained eyes. The highway is empty and Hanzo is about to tell McCree to give up and stop at a gas station, but a diner shimmers its way onto the horizon and McCree lets out a  _ Whoop!  _ Of excitement.

 

“Oh thank Heavens, real food.” McCree says, his smile permeating his voice. Hanzo frowns--American food never sits well on his stomach, but McCree’s enthusiasm is contagious. He looks over at Hanzo’s displeased face, “Aw, c’mon sugar. I’ll treat.” McCree beams at the archer who looks straight ahead, not making eye contact.

 

“Would it be possible to get toast that isn’t already covered in butter?” Hanzo mumbles as they turn into the small parking lot. There’s no less than four tractor trailers parked in a row and McCree has to squeeze their car by to get to a parking spot. Hanzo vaguely remembers his first diner experience, where a simple order of toast turned in to a sloppy mess due to the large pad of butter on each slice. McCree laughs at Hanzo’s question.

 

“Of course, darlin’.” McCree responds, selecting a space and killing the engine. “It’s a diner, you could get toast without the toasted part if you want.” Hanzo grimaces in response, “The world is your oyster.” McCree unbuckles his belt and is nearly vibrating in his seat, ready to go inside. However, he’s nothing if not thoughtful, so he’s waiting for Hanzo to make the first move, to get his approval. They sit there in a silent tense moment--all Hanzo wants is a bottle of water and a protein bar, but looking at McCree’s hopeful expression shatters his resolve for a simple breakfast.

 

Hanzo finally gives in with a sigh and a nod.  McCree pushes his door open so fast it makes the car rock.

 

They’re greeted by an older woman who takes them to a large booth, sitting them on opposite sides of one another. Hanzo picks up the menu and tries to open the plastic pages--they’re stuck together by years of syrup and sticky fingers. He sets the menu back down without trying any further. McCree on the other hand pried his open and is currently lounging in the booth, back against the window and elbow propped up on the table. He looks like he belongs here in his flannel shirt, black jeans and ridiculous boots. Hanzo is jealous of his casual nature and tries to relax his shoulders, but he’s unconsciously terrified of letting his back hit the plastic seat so he immediately tenses up. He settles for folding his hands in front of him on the table, watching McCree flip through the endless menu.

 

It’s when he’s given small moments like this, when they’re alone together in a public place, that his mind drifts back to San Diego and their mission. It was supposed to be simple--go to a spot, tail a suspicious character, find the local Talon base and then report back. How many of these missions has he done? Dozens? They’re all the same and they all go in a specific order: step 1 leads to step 2; step 2 turns into step 3 and so on until the mission is over. This time, something went wrong. Somehow step 1 careened them into step 5 with no previous knowledge of step 2 through 4. It the worst case scenario. He was on top of an apartment building, watching as McCree tailed the target, the words “ _ Got ‘im.”, _ whispered over their secured line. Then suddenly a fog appeared--a shadow that blocked McCree from his sight for a moment--only a moment--and someone was there. That someone had caught on to them, that someone said something--but from his high perch, he couldn’t hear what the gunslinger was saying, or what that someone was saying back. All he saw was a man in a dark coat, no weapon, only words coming out of his ruined mouth--so he waited. He remembers his ankles screaming, begging him to stand up, to get out of the crouching position he was in for two hours. He remembers his mind begging him to shoot that someone and get them both far away--but he couldn’t do it--he couldn’t do anything. He was frozen in a mixture of fear and anticipation. All he could see were the small beads of sweat forming on the gunslinger’s brow and the nervous swallows he kept repeating. Hanzo watched his Adam’s apple bob up and down in an uncomfortable motion and his bow hand gripped Storm Bow a little tighter.

 

After a moment is was all over--the shadow appeared in front of Hanzo’s vision again and he quickly blinked in an attempt to clear it. When McCree reemerged into his line of sight, he was pale. His naturally tan skin was sallow and sickly and his eyes were tired. Hanzo watched as the gunslinger sunk down to one knee, flesh hand over his chest in an attempt to steady his heartbeat. Hanzo didn’t speak, still didn’t move. He could no longer feel the right side of his body--the circulation so strained that he could feel every painful pump of blood. McCree didn’t stand up for a long time, but when he did he brought a finger to his ear and said four words, “ _ We have to go.” _

 

Now here they are, in a literal greasy spoon with menus that stick together and booths that smell like old dishwater and bad coffee. Hanzo glances around, there’s mostly truck drivers within the establishment. They’re all drinking coffee, hunched over the bar countertop, and pouring over a newspaper or flipping through their phones. He envies their ability to tune out the world around them, while he is on high alert for a threat he doesn’t know and can’t see. It feels likes ages pass before a somehow even older woman comes by to take their order.

 

“Coffee for me, sugar.” McCree says, his baritone voice floating over the table with such reverberation it even causes Hanzo’s heart to skip a beat. Their waitress laughs and mumbles,  _ If I was a younger woman... _ before turning her attention to Hanzo. He asks for the same and she walks away without a word in his direction. Hanzo glares as McCree.

 

“What was that?” Hanzo asks, questioning the gunslingers flirtations. McCree just laughs.

 

“What?” McCree asks, playing dumb. “I’m just bein’ kind to the old gal.” The cowboy rests his head on the glass of the window, fully stretching his neck. Hanzo glances at his prominent Adam’s apple, his mind floating back to that dark San Diego night. The fear he felt was real, and he still feels it in this diner in the middle of New Mexico--and yet McCree has the gall to flirt with waitresses. He swallows any retort he might have as the waitress comes back over. The coffees are set down unceremoniously and she proceeds to take their food orders--lightly joking with Hanzo, asking if he’s sick because he only ordered toast. McCree on the other hand asks for the largest breakfast possible and it makes the waitress laugh, her voice rough and airy with age. She walks away shaking her head and McCree smirks at Hanzo.

 

“See look? She’s thrilled.” McCree reaches in the front pocket of his flannel and digs out an unlit cigar. He pops it in his mouth and chews the end. Hanzo watches as he moves the cigar around his mouth, as he usually does when he’s nervous or lost in thought. Hanzo’s eyes move over his mouth slowly, the filthy habit oddly transfixing when he focuses on the movement of his full lips around the cigar. That night he was smoking a cigar, walking casually behind the target. The shadow appeared and… what happened to his cigar? Hanzo doesn’t distinctly remember him having it after that someone appeared--but then again it was dark and he was so tense. McCree clears his throat and Hanzo blinks, glancing up at the gunslinger’s eyes. His cheeks are brightly colored against his tan skin.

 

“Stop starin’, I’m gonna get all red.” McCree mumbles, pulling the cigar out of his mouth with his good hand. Hanzo sits up straight as a board and adverts his attention to his coffee, the murky liquid suddenly very interesting. He adds a small amount of sugar and stirs it slowly, watching the whirlpool form around his spoon.  _ Stop staring. _ Hanzo chides himself,  _ You’re not invisible here. _

 

“So,” McCree breaks the silence yet again, his personality a rocket ship for conversation. “We never did get to finish our discussion last night.” Hanzo looks up, still stirring his coffee--the sound of the metal against ceramic ringing through his ears. Discussion? What were they discussing? Hanzo squints and tries to remember what happened after his third drink, but his head swirls and he gives up.

"

“Discussion?” Hanzo parrots his own thoughts, “What discuss--” he attempts to inquire further, but their waitress comes over to refill McCree’s coffee and Hanzo stops. McCree smiles and nods and she walks away, ignoring Hanzo completely. He’s almost grateful for it.

 

“Yeah, you know. That discussion of ours was just gettin’ started before you passed out on the table. The one where I was asking more about you…” Hanzo’s expression grows hard, McCree’s voice floating off into the empty air of the restaurant. The memory creeping into the archer’s mind like a worm. The other man realizes he stepped on a landmine yet again and allows the comment to sit in the space between them. Hanzo looks away again, this time out of the window. His eyebrows furrow in deep thought, a ghost of his former self drifting over his features. Before the archer can say anything back, the waitress descends upon them with a myriad of plates a moment later and McCree feels the tension break as if he was cracking a tree limb with his bare hands.

 

He decides to wait to bring it up again.

 

\---

 

It’s dark inside the bar--the lights are barely glimmering behind the heavy green lamp shades they sit behind. There’s only a few overhead lamps which are all turned to the dimmest setting. The interior is more old timey than he expected; mostly dark wood, making seeing a face at a distance almost impossible. But, McCree’s always had one good eye and he prides himself on being a sharpshooter who can spot a target at the bottom of a well twenty miles away. He squints at the bar one more time--that’s him alright, the gentleman taking gratuitous sips of his gin and tonic and wearing too much black. They’d been tailing him for a month now, waiting for the right time to truly get a lead on this entire San Diego operation. This guy’s the one with the big mouth, the talker who opened right up to the cowboy as soon as he started asking the right questions. He gave himself away along with his whole outfit, now they just have to be sure Overwatch catches him before Talon erases him.

 

McCree watches him drink from his dark corner, the cowboy nursing a beer, trying to blend in but feeling the usual nerves that such a delicate mission brings. He knows this is a Talon hangout, he’s been briefed on who is aligned with who, but being in the thick of it stands the hairs on the back of his neck on end. The only thing that calms him is the thought of his team mate outside, perched on top of that apartment building, bow ready and waiting. As soon as there’s any sign of foul play, Hanzo’s got the OK to run in and start putting arrows through people’s skulls. He’s seen what that man can do against twenty people and one arrow at close range, and he’s happy to say he’s not on the pointy end of his arrow tips.

 

It takes a few hours, but the man at the bar stands up and slinks out the front door. McCree waits a beat and downs the rest of his beer, following a dozen steps behind. It’s bright as hell outside compared to the dim of the bar. His eyes adjust to the light of the full moon and he hears a beep in his ear--Hanzo’s signal that eyes are on him. He feels the tension of the bar drift out through his fingertips and leans against the brick facade in front of the establishment. He takes a cigar out of the front pocket of his button down and lights it, eyeing his target who is currently walking east on the sidewalk towards downtown. 

 

“ _ Got ‘im. _ ” He whispers to Hanzo, knowing he won’t respond from his nest. He takes a long drag of his cigar before following, the sweet smoke filling his lungs with a comfortable burn. He lets it out slow as he pushes off the brick, walking at a leisured pace in the direction of the target. The streetlamps illuminate the man dressed in black, but a normal eye might not be able to differentiate the poles from the person.

 

It happens suddenly, the shadow creeping into his vision. He loses the target--he never loses the target. It’s a fog that drifts into his eyes only for a moment, but long enough for him to notice something is off. He tries to blink it away, but it surrounds him like two arms wrapping him in a blanket. The curtain in front of his eyes is opened in time for him to watch a man form from the darkness. The man that appears is wearing a large black coat with the hood pulled up to cover half of his face--the half that’s viewable is ruined, but familiar. His breath catches in his throat, his cigar gone from his hand. An ethereal smile creeps onto the other man’s exposed lips and one word creeps out.

 

“ _ Jesse _ .”

 

\---

 

He’s spaced out again. He shakes his head and gets his bearings--vision focusing on the flat road of the desert stretching in front of him. It’s later in the day, closer to 2 pm. After their quiet breakfast they set back out on the road to Tulsa. They had a few hours to catch up on, but he figures there’s still about six hours left of driving to do today. He glances over at Hanzo, who is yet again passed out. McCree laughs, wondering if he truly slept last night. He can fall asleep anywhere. He’s curled up into a ball in that tiny seat, choosing to use his cardigan as a pillow. It’s hot enough in the car without a sweater and McCree’s not minding the unabashed view of his arms.

 

McCree’s always been a thinker, a calculator--always looking for the exact position, speed, distance... He can outmark almost any man if he thinks hard enough, that’s how he’s gotten through life and what put him on the front lines in Overwatch, but for the life of him he can’t understand the man next to him in the passenger seat. One minute they’re drinking and having a good time, and the next he locks himself up and throws away the key. Genji’s one of his closest friends, if not the only friend he really has in all of Overwatch. He’s heard all the stories of their spotty past and he knows of all the redemption arcs in their lives, but why on Earth is this guy shutting down whenever McCree wants to know more? All he knows is one side, and while he trusts it, he’s not one to make assumptions about anyone. Tailing bad guys for the last decade has taught him that it’s best to ignore rumors. The best info comes directly from the guy in question.

 

And he also knows he’s taken quite an interest in his team mate. Ever since he was told about Hanzo from Genji he’s been interested. Once he figured out he was a sniping type he assumed they would be best buddies. Who doesn’t like a little competition on the field? And while Genji usually had his back on missions, Hanzo was Genji’s backup, serving as a pinch assassin when the mission called for it. All he needed was someone in the air watching his back while he was on the ground, doing the leg work. McCree enjoyed pounding the concrete, shaking people down and looking for answers. He’s a smooth talker, and a good one. Always has been, even since he was a teenager--and age has only made that wine finer. He’s talked information out of everyone and he can be rather charming. But, as soon as McCree lays down his usual base, Hanzo backs away--seeing the bait and running away from it. He knows he can schmooze the pants off of any man, but Hanzo’s biting back.

 

He assumes it’s because of the mission--it has to be. Genji was supposed to be his eyes in the sky that day, but because of unforeseen complications with his suit, he had to stay back and get it worked on. Something about the vents malfunctioning and spewing acrid green smoke. It didn’t sound good, so Hanzo stepped in to take over and Genji was, and still in most likey, eternally grateful. Is Hanzo upset because the mission failed all together? Does he feel responsible for the failure because his brother wasn’t there? Or maybe he feels guilty because he’s the reason Genji’s in that suit?

 

McCree decides he’ll save the thinking for a later time--he’s done enough of it today--and flips on the radio. A few songs zip in and out of range and Hanzo stirs in his seat, jostling himself out of his tight ball and placing both of his feet on the floor. McCree turns the radio down a little bit more, but Hanzo is already awake, blinking sleep out of his eyes. McCree glances at him out of the corner of his eye.

 

“Have any good dreams, sleeping beauty?” McCree asks, fiddling with the tuner. “Was I in any of ‘em?” He lets out a short laugh and his eyes drift over to him again. Hanzo’s staring back at him, a deer in the headlights, eyes wide and eyebrows shooting up his forehead. He parts his lips as if to say something, but McCree cuts him off with a wave of his hand.

 

“Oh I’m jus’ kiddin’.” McCree laughs, dismissing the question entirely. He stops waving his hand and puts it over his mouth, trying to hide the chagrin that rushes up his cheeks. “Just foolin’...” he adds, mumbling through his good hand. But goddamn if he doesn’t want to know more.

  
His big mouth is gonna kill him one of these days. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> let's talk about that dream next chapter.
> 
> thank you all for this overwhelming support for this story! it means the world
> 
> feel free to yell at me @hikkachutv on twitter  
> or loverlyduck on tumblr

**Author's Note:**

> if you're interested in being a beta reader for me, tweet me @hikkachutv


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